Unpleasant Truths
by glindalupin
Summary: SLASH. Holmes/Watson. Watson and Holmes are discovered and find their lives completely turned upside down.


I write these thoughts down as a plea. A plea for the truth, for even the smallest of acknowledgements, for life. I write these words, knowing full well that they may be my final penned words, in the hope that someone, anyone, will read them and tell the world my story.

Well, our story.

For I write these melancholy words not only for myself and for my salvation.

I write them for Holmes.

I get ahead of myself. After years of writing the stories of the many exciting adventures of Sherlock Holmes and myself, I should know damn well better than to start a story from its finish, regrettable a finish as it is.

My name is John H. Watson, MD. I am not sure the extent as to which any reader of these secret notes will recognize that name, if anyone will read them at all, so I will not elucidate much about myself, other than that of my name and the fact that I do (or did) exist.

I will be silent no longer.

My friend Sherlock Holmes also existed. Forgive me; he _exists_ at the time at which I pen this. Neither of us are solely fictional characters, as my former friend and literary agent Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as the English government, would have the world at large believe.

Damn it all. Forgive my use of expletives, but my mind is obviously not focused at the present, due to these tumultuous excuses of lives that we are forced to undergo as of late. I have jumped to the end of this tragic tale yet again. Perhaps it is some inhibition of mine to reveal the cause of such calamities yet another time, but it must be done for this entreaty. Forgive me, dear reader, but the truth is never entirely pleasant, and I am well aware that the following news is anything but pleasant to most people in our society.

I am in a homosexual relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and because of the laws of our country, it has caused the tragedies that now plainly affect our daily lives.

We do not regret anything.

We entered this relationship many years ago, shortly after Holmes' return from the dead, the story of which I dramatised in "The Empty House." I will not divulge the story of our first union because there are things a man holds most dear and wishes to keep private, even if most of his life has been stolen and picked apart by a vengeful government. I simply wish to keep the happiest memory I have of Holmes locked away in our brain attics, so we can draw upon it in these harrowing times.

This entire dilemma began in the summer of 1903. As my readers may recall, this was the year that my little stories began publication in _The Strand_ yet again, including "The Empty House."

Holmes and I had thus been romantically involved for almost nine years, without any disturbance or discovery. We were careful to keep our forays to our rooms in Baker Street and well out of the sight or knowledge of Mrs. Hudson. I was not the only one who had benefit intellectually from living with Mr. Sherlock Holmes: Mrs. Hudson had learned to keep a keen eye for singular irregularities.

Therefore, what happened?

I will tell you what happened, dear reader. We made a mistake, a grave and regrettable mistake. One evening, Holmes and I were entertaining our then-friend Inspector Lestrade, who was consulting us regarding a string of cat burglaries in Whitechapel. The evening passed pleasantly enough, and before long, Lestrade made his goodbyes and left our home.

I turned to Holmes and smiled congenially, "The night is still young, my friend. What say you to a game of cat and mouse?"

He returned my smile most unabashedly and rose from his seat. "My blushes, Watson, your wanton metaphor has certainly confused me on one point. Who is the cat? And who is the mouse?" With each word, he advanced, slowly and meticulously drawing out each syllable in a sinuous fashion.

My eyes met his, and I blinked in the face of his brazen desire. "I believe it is obvious tonight as to who is the cat this time…"

We embraced in the way lovers so often do, blind to what was happening around us. Never did we suspect anyone to enter. We were always so careful to make sure our guests were long gone and that Mrs. Hudson was busy downstairs. Nevertheless…

"Dear God!"

I relinquished my hold on Holmes and spun around, mirroring the actions of Holmes.

Lestrade was standing in the doorway, mouth agape and pale as a sheet. "Never in all my years… Mr. Holmes… I…"

Turning to look at Holmes, I found that the pallor in his cheeks had also disappeared, even more so than his usual pale self. He walked cautiously towards the frightened inspector. "Now, Lestrade…"

"_Inspector_ Lestrade!" he screeched in response, backing further away. "I don't want to hear it! What… what you've done is illegal! Immoral!"

"Lestrade-" I interjected. "Please try to calm yourself. I am sure we can reach an agreement. After all, we are friends, are we not?" My heart raced in utter fear. This was heading down a dangerous path, and quickly.

"Friends? _Friends_?" Lestrade laughed nervously. "We cannot be friends anymore! I cannot, simply cannot, be friends with… with… criminals!"

The disgust on his face was plain.

"Arrest us, then."

"What?" I turned to Holmes, utterly taken aback.

"Arrest us, Lestrade. Clap us in darbies. Take us to Scotland Yard. After all, we have broken the Labouchere Amendment. You will be heralded." Holmes' face was set in a mask of stone, neither glib nor melancholic.

"Heralded for bringing the greatest scandal to the Crown that this world has ever or will ever see."

Lestrade's eyes widened, but he recovered and gave us an equally steely gaze. "You will not manipulate me, sir."

"I am not manipulating, nor am I lying on any point. My demise will mean the demise of anyone who has ever associated with me or my colleague." The mask remained in place.

I stood transfixed. We were truly at a rock and hard place, as lauded by Homer. One false step could mean the gaol for Holmes and me.

"I cannot let such lecherous villainy occur under the pretense of solving crimes. Your abominable acts, whether or not they extend further than what I have witnessed tonight, cannot go on! I do not care as to what may happen. You are both criminals!"

My mind was reeling that such betrayal was warranted from someone so dear a friend because of an insipid and bigoted piece of administration.

"Then take us to the home of Mycroft Holmes. While I know he is a brother of mine, he is also a government official with hands, eyes, and ears in every department and every office. He will be able to handle this… dilemma, with utter discretion and tact."

Thus, we made our way to Mycroft's lodgings. Our visit was not a pleasant one, for Lestrade had placed us under house arrest and informed the officers on our posts that we were under suspicion for cat burglary (at the desperate and adamant request of Mycroft). Telegraphs stole out into the night.

While awaiting the day to come with news of our fate, Mycroft barraged us with remonstrances.

"Are you two utterly daft? Whatever could you have been thinking?" His large face was now contorted with rage and disgust.

"Mycroft, we took utter care to remain undiscovered. I would have thought that my happiness-"

Mycroft wheeled upon him and cut his words short. "Was what? Important to me?" Holmes pursed his lips, the only sign he would give that the words stung. "While your happiness is important to me, Sherlock, the ease at which I conduct my affairs is just as important. My hand is now forced to make sense out of this nonsense! I am now dragged into the muddied waters because you…and _you_," he said, rounding on me, "must make a show of your inverted perversions!"

The argument raged throughout the twilight hours and well into daybreak, and I tried my best to stay out of the quarrel between the brothers. My heart ached, for I knew there would never be a remedy to the words spoken between them that night. The raven hair of my lover cast about his face as he stormed about, practically shouting retorts at Mycroft in a manner before which I had never seen. His hands were shaking, clenching and unclenching, each muscle straining beneath the skin. My dearest Sherlock never looked older than he did that night.

He was a broken man.

And I, culpable.

I do blame myself for becoming the object of his affections. Before me, Sherlock Holmes was truly asexual and did not desire relationships of an amorous sort.

Light filtered into the room, revealing brothers Holmes seated at Mycroft's desk, continuing the battle, but both looked worn and desperate. A knock sounded at the door, proving to be a maid holding a paper.

She handed it to Mycroft and silently exited. Both Holmes and I looked to Mycroft with bated breath. I stood and walked over to the desk until I was behind Holmes. I rested a hand on his shoulder, needing the contact and the reassurance in the face of this adversity.

With each line, Mycroft's frown deepened. The telltale signs of doom spread throughout each wrinkle. Finally, he gasped and sank lower within his chair, dropping the paper and holding his head within his hands.

"This is disastrous, Sherlock… The Crown is utterly displeased. They have been apprised of the situation and have come up with a solution..."

Mycroft looked up at the both of us, his face terse. "You two are going to be erased."

"Erased?" I was confused. Erased was a term one used in literature, not in life. Did he imply metaphorically that we would be put to death?

I felt Holmes tense beneath me. "Mycroft, death was abolished as a punishment for homosexuality in 1861."

"I do not mean death!" Mycroft appeared irritated. "You will cease to exist by means of having never existed at all. You will be erased from all records and sent to gaol for at least two years. But you will not _exist_."

I sank to the ground next to Holmes. It felt as if the wind was being kicked from my chest. I felt Holmes' hand trickle down and entwine itself into mine, the sinewy fingers languidly but nervously stroking mine.

He spoke softly, "How does one erase another who is so eminently known and is published in magazines? How does one simply walk away from this believing Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were simply nonexistent, damn it?" His voice shook, and his pulse pumped rapidly in the soft veins in his hand.

Mycroft hissed, "There are _many_ who would rather not be known for having associating with an invert, Sherlock. Many of your clients will be glad to hear that they have been saved the scandal of resorting to a man so perverted for their ailments. They would gladly choose silence to such loss of reputation." We stared in shock at him. "And those who remain loyal to you will… suffer the consequences."

"But there are those who read _The Strand_! Surely the Crown cannot expunge all of _them_!" I retorted hotly.

"They have outlined their solution to that problem in this letter, as well. Your stories shall become the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

"He would never agree-"

"He can and he will, John!" the elder Holmes brother shouted. "You have no idea the extent of power the Crown has. They have information on nearly everyone! It is all a matter of leverage, and in this instance, the Crown has information about Doyle's current affair with Jean Leckie, which could wreak havoc on his literary reputation if word were to get out."

"But… Doyle… Louise… I don't believe you…" The words died in my throat, as did all hope I might have still held. Blue-black darkness surrounded my heart, and a morose silence overwhelmed me. Holmes remained still and silent. I could hear breath fluttering in and out above me.

Mycroft looked over my countenance and pursed his lips. "Now, if I may finish. All of your notes will be given to Doyle, and he will have the literary license to do what he wishes with the characters."

_Characters. That is what we are reduced to._ White stars blossomed in my eyes, and I felt as if I would faint.

I heard an intake of breath at my ear, and Sherlock spoke. "Might I ask what is to become of us today?"

Mycroft sighed and steepled his hands. "We must wait for cover of darkness to transport you to prison. The Crown does not wish to risk anymore exposure than is necessary."

"Mycroft…" Holmes' voice was barely above a whisper. "What is to become of you?"

The elder Holmes' eyes flickered with rage, but it abated. "This paper was also a termination of my occupation in government. However, that is the price to pay for kinship, I suppose."

"But, Mycroft, you have been described in full detail in the stories. What is _really_ to become of you?" A cold sadness swept through Sherlock's voice.

"I am to be erased, as well. And it has been _stressed_ that I move to the Continent without delay." He sighed and shifted, settling his gaze upon the wall behind us, refusing to acknowledge the source of Jupiter's final derailment.

Holmes stood up suddenly and began to pace the room. "Brother mine, it is evident that nothing can be done to salvage our existences, none of ours. However, it is possible that none of us may suffer a physical punishment, if you permit me."

Mycroft sharply rose and slammed his hands on the table. "Any such suggestions may result in escape for you, but a certain imprisonment for me, _brother mine_," he sneered.

"Mycroft, if you have ever loved me, please try to listen… All hope is not lost." With that, Holmes turned on me and smiled softly. He returned to his treatise with Mycroft. "The sentry posted at the door does not know what was on that coded message, nor have they been apprised of the situation. However, there will be another sentry sent to shadow anyone who may exit this establishment. You are well versed in manners to escape such endeavors. Use them and get as far away as you can from England."

"How _dare,_ you! How dare you after coming in here and ruining my damned life! As if I could lo-"

"Do you really think they will just let you retire like an English gentleman to the Continent? Do you really think they will trust you not to keep contact with your brother or expose the government?"

Mycroft's temper appeared to abate and wither in the face of this truth. "Very well."

And thus, we began to plot our escape with heavy hearts. Terse goodbyes were forged, and Mycroft left at about noon. That left Holmes and I to steal out a third floor window and across the rooftops until we were certain we could slip down to the main street below without being seen.

Several days later, ravaged with hunger and black depression, we were on a boat for the Americas, where we have spent the last few years trying to forge pitiful lives, I as a local doctor (though it was hard to prove I was a practicing physician without proof of degree from any university) and Holmes as a… as a…

I regret to say that Holmes has never exactly recovered from the blow of losing everything he had gained in his lifetime. He wanted to establish a consultancy, but he knows that we will be found out if word reached London of a detective with powers similar to that of the great and damnably fictional Sherlock Holmes.

Word has reached our ears that Mrs. Hudson shuffled off this mortal coil in a fire that claimed, _singularly_ enough, just our flat in Baker Street. Lestrade was promoted, but Gregson and Hopkins were forced into early retirements.

And, despite the crushing words exchanged, I knew that Holmes was devastated that he never knew what became of Mycroft.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle married Jean Leckie a year after Louise Doyle died, and no new Holmes stories have been printed as of yet.

So dear reader, you have heard my sad story. It is not all bad, though… I talk of the existences that Holmes and I live as pitiful, but they could be worse, in all actuality. I share a very domestic life with Sherlock Holmes.

We do not speak of the tragedy that has befallen us, but we do not allow it to become an impenetrable wall between us. I still love Sherlock in colors red and white. He still loves me in his way, silent and brooding, but companionate as it is. Like I have said, neither of us regrets the reasons for which we live as we do.

As I write this, Holmes is sleeping upon the sofa, wrapped in a ratty blanket and shivering. I will join him in a moment, for heat is so hard to come by at the present, and I cannot risk him falling ill in his mental state. However, it was necessary that I write this when he could not prevent me from doing so. The once proud Holmes is now complacent and broken into this life.

I cannot live knowing I did not try to restore his honor. Therefore, I entreat you, the universe, and justice to find this letter. I shall place it in a strong box within our attic in Syracuse, New York, along with recent photographs of each of us. I know this may all be incredulous and may seem a grand hoax, but I promise that it is not. If you take this to Doyle, or whoever may control his estate at the present time, and ask to see the box from Cox & Co, I am sure he will believe you. Not many can know now that I truly kept a box there, if it even still is there. I do not know how to convince you, but please, as one human being to another, I beg you.

I cannot fail Sherlock Holmes.

I love him…

And thus, I thank you, most kind reader, for taking the time to read this humble plea.

I am, most sincerely yours,

John H. Watson, MD

-----PRESENT DAY------

To the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:

I have come upon a most intriguing letter. I discovered it in my home in Syracuse, in a box in my attic. How it came to be there without knowledge of any previous owners, I do not know.

I have enclosed a copy of the letter.

The story is remarkable, and if true, utterly galvanizing. I could not remain silent. Therefore, I lay the facts before you as I recognize them:

In a plot near the house are two grave markers, one marked "Basil Hoanes" and "Hamish Watkins." In reading the Sherlock Holmes stories, one might recognize the name of Basil. Furthermore, Mary Watson referred to John Watson as James in the stories, a name she may have derived from his middle name, if we take the H. to stand for Hamish.

This may be entirely coincidental, but there are also photos included in the strong box. They are very old and very aged, and they are from a time of poor photographic capabilities. I have also included copies of these within this letter.

They bear a remarkable resemblance to the Paget illustrations, do they not?

I recognize that Cox & Co burned down in the Second Great Fire, but I find no reason to believe that Watson's box was among that which burned. I believe it is somewhere in your property, and if you were to find it, you may redeem the name of these two extraordinary gentlemen.

It was Holmes who once said, "Whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Therefore, I earnestly implore your help in this matter, and I await your reply most anxiously.

Sincerely yours,

GL

Author's Notes:

1) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's wife died in 1906, and Doyle married Jean Leckie in 1907. Rumors floated around that an affair occurred.  
2) The Second Great Fire of London did indeed raze Cox & Co to the ground.  
3) I just randomly picked Syracuse.  
4) The Labouchere Amendment made it illegal for men to commit "gross indecencies," and this vague definition was often used to include any amorous relation between man and man.  
5) Hanging was abolished as a punishment to homosexuality in 1861, but the illegality of the act remained, sadly enough.


End file.
